


Disambiguation

by gardnerhill



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Communication Failure, Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Nonverbal Communication, Prompt Fic, Story: The Adventure of the Dancing Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 06:13:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7606822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their communication skills are unparalleled in their perfection. Nearly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disambiguation

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2016 July Watson's Woes Promptfest prompt #27, **Thx 4 Nothing:** Holmes has never been known to write letters where a telegram would serve, and Sherlock would rather text than talk. But the easy way is not always the best way. Show a time where a communication shortcut did more harm than good.

_W – Mt @ B &E23 1300 Bg SS._

Watson pocketed her phone and pushed away from the remnant of her steak salad. “Sorry, Emily, duty calls.”

She was to meet Sherlock at Broadway & East 23rd at 1pm, and it was something grisly – as he’d quaintly warned her, she was to bring her surgeon’s stomach.

***

She looked out the window. Her partner stood at the window of the skyscraper facing this building, on the corresponding floor. He waved his arms, jumped, somersaulted, waved a flag, kicked his legs.

He was imitating the Dancing Font, she recognized.

Again the dance at the window.

_F-O-N-E. B-U-G-G-D. E-V-1. N-O. C-A-L-L. R-O-B-E-R-T-S-O-N._

“Everyone” had gotten to Sherlock’s phone, had they? And they weren’t shy about sharing their information, which could be very dangerous right now. Hence the warning not to use the phone.

She turned as the board members came in – Hernandez, Tsai, Robertson and Gordon – with her neutral face on. “Ms. Robertson,” she began.

***

\-- --- .-. .. .- .-. - -.-- / .-- .- - -.-. .... .. -. --. / .... . .-.

Ostensibly Sherlock was tapping and scratching at his leg out of nervousness or as a stim-exercise while speaking to Juana Cruzan in the library, all their voices low at the table in the middle of the study area the Volt dealer had insisted on using. How many people even knew Morse code any more?

_M-o-r-i-a-r-t-y w-a-t-c-h-i-n-g h-e-r_

Joan made sure not to allude to the woman’s true employer during the interview.

***

Sherlock was across the street with his back to her and Joan was holding his phone as well as hers, so good luck talking to him now. He shook wildly, especially his rear end. He jumped forward one step, then back, then wriggled sideways to her left. The other people on the sidewalk gave him a wide berth and said a few rude things but otherwise kept going; they clearly thought he was just another street person.

Bee dancing? This was the weirdest form of non-verbal communication her partner had yet come up with. All right, bees danced to give directions to the best pollen sources. So. Directions. If she read his “dance” right, she was to go straight up one block, then one block to the left, and there was the “flower” – their target.

Joan set off at her usual brisk NYC pace, turned left, and in two seconds was surrounded by noisome piles in a neighborhood that hadn’t paid their garbage bills since LaGuardia was mayor. The only inhabitants seemed to be men who had nothing better to do – including shower – than to assume every woman on the sidewalk couldn’t live without their verbal appraisal of her desirability.

An hour later she was back at the brownstone, tight-lipped and her lovely heels still reeking of week-old pizza boxes.

Sherlock was already there, heading over. “Watson, where have you been? You were gone before I could call you back–”

“I followed your instructions,” she said, low and deadly. “There was nothing in that block! I looked!”

“Instructions?” He looked poleaxed. “Block? I gave you no instructions.”

“The, the bee-thing you did!” Joan snapped, and gave an exaggerated demo of his jump-wiggle, mimicking his directions exactly. “Across the street! That direction dance!”

Sherlock’s face changed. “Oh.” His expression remained the same but his ears tinged pink. “That was an, ah, intergluteal itch, I’m afraid.”

That silenced Watson for a good three minutes too. “Next time,” her voice even and low, “ _scratch_.”


End file.
